A Network of Spittle
by EnjoyingObsession
Summary: July 31st, 1980 was a very curious night, indeed. The news of young Mr. Potter's birth, though technically secret, made its way from hidden cottages to private meetings all across the country through a network magic and spittle. 100% canon compliant, including Pottermore and interview details.


_Your soul was like a network of spittle_

James could not remember the charm to bewitch the wooden spoon into stirring on its own, nor the charm that would set the Chinese fans flapping against the slight breeze floating in through the kitchen window. That these were both first-year spells straight out of Goshawk's _Standard Book_ was either a sign that he ought to give it up and move straight into St. Mungo's, or a mark of his own incompetence in the face of impending doom and/or parenthood. Either way, he stirred the pot vigorously, watching the string thrash in the bubbles like a flag in a rainstorm.

That _thing _under the sink better not be a Devonshire pixie, he thought.

What was the string for again? Didn't Muggles boil things to clean them or something? Seemed a trifle odd and not particularly relevant to a wizarding birth, but then again, Lily was Muggle-born. She'd know things like that. And Raymonda the healer had set him up with a job to do (in his mind's eye, he could see Lily mouthing the words _you had ONE job_) and by Merlin, he was going to do it right.

On second thought, maybe a Devonshire pixie might be nice.

It might take his mind off... _other _small and squealing creatures. That, and the heat. It was seven hundred and thirty-one degrees Flamel outside, and possibly more in the stifling kitchen. Of _course _Lily had to go off on the hottest night of the century. Of _course _it had to be the night the Cannons went up against the Kestrels for the semi-finals. Of _course _it had to be—

"AAAAH!" He whipped his wand out of his pocket with sweaty hands and rather less finesse than he might have hoped. It was either a Padfoot, a vengeful pureblood in a cloak or—

"Raymonda?" he asked in a small voice.

A friendly-faced witch with waist-length grey hair was motioning frantically and mouthing something at him. He raised an eyebrow. She gestured from her mouth to his ears, her wand waving in the air and emitting a few accidental red sparks.

"What? Is something wrong? Did something happen? Or not happen? That was, er, supposed to happen? Or not happen yet?" he shouted.

She scowled at him and lunged for his wand, grabbing it out of his startled fingers and muttering "...tatem." James heard a noise like a vacuum-sealed jar being popped open.

"Oh," he said sheepishly, "Muffling charm, nice and simple, y'know... keeps me focused on all that, er, string that—"

"Potter." Raymonda reached for a rag to wipe the sweat off her brow, then changed her mind at the last moment when she realized how dirty the rag was. "Ye might wanna turn off that stove and have a look at yer son."

James' wand set off a crackling bolt of electricity of its own accord.

"Go on then," she laughed. "And I'll take care o' this pixie nest. Nasty things, they are."

* * *

><p>The one thing Wendy and David Marks disliked about the old half-timbered cottage in Cokeworth was the bird problem. There must have been an owl's nest of some size in the abandoned barn across the river, because an unholy number of owls seemed to use their barbecue as a latrine and their Ford Capri as a urinal. The morning that Wendy found feathers of at least twenty-one different colours in the girls' inflatable pool was the last straw. It simply wasn't hygienic.<p>

Mr. Evans was simply too old, too awkward and too male to be sorting through a rainbow of rubber soothers in an attempt to determine which particular soother his grandson was screaming for. He chose a cheery-looking yellow one with little ducks on the ring and held it up. "See, little tyke? See the duckies?"

"NNYYYYEAAAAAAARGHHGHG!"

He attempted a blue soother with a particularly large and sparkly ring. "Come on then, Dudley. Be a good boy and—"

He felt the warm, gooey spray of mucus trickle down his face. Wasn't there some sort of trick with babies, he wondered? Something that made them quiet? Petunia hadn't screeched like this when she was small. But perhaps that was because her mother was around, he thought, feeling a lump form in his throat.

Dudley was now sobbing and spewing spittle at the walls with an amount of force that simply didn't seem probable for a five-week-old. And it was a surprising amount of strength. _No wonder Vernon medaled in heavyweight in college. _Mr. Evans attempted to clean up the mess with a dishtowel patterned with beryoza leaves. Dudley attempted to bite off his thumb as he wiped around his mouth. Mr. Evans blinked. Did that leaf just detach from the twig?

"MAAAAAAAA!" Dudley screamed. A globule of snot dripped out of his nose. Mr. Evans sighed. If his wife were here— but she wasn't, and that was that. Best to stay in the moment, carry on. Strong upper lip and all that. He pulled a random soother out of the plastic container and shoved it into Dudley's mouth with some unnecessary force. A top-notch babysitter he was not, but he doubted his daughter and son-in-law would even notice Dudley's mess when they returned from the kennel club.

Mr. Evans glanced up out the window at a glimmer of white in the sky— surely an airplane, off to take the holiday-ing couples to Spain and Portugal. But when he peered out at the sky, he saw only a sliver of crescent moon.

Mr. Evans shook his head and turned on the faucet, trying to scrub some porridge out of the dish towel. Dudley was now pounding on his high chair's little table and kicking the air but the soother seemed to quiet him somewhat. Mr. Evans watched a beryoza leaf redden and drift down from the branch— the branch that was woven into the pattern of this entirely static dish towel. These things had once been shocking, not to mention a little disturbing, but now Mr. Evans only thought: _Lily_. But it was half-two in the morning and—

He felt a grin spreading over his face like a rising moon. Dudley burped.

* * *

><p>"Shhh!"<p>

"Have you—"

He felt a hand slap over his mouth in the dark. His muscles tensed, wand hand ready, held at shoulder height as they had been taught by McGonagall when they were inducted into the Order. He heard the quiet moan of a shutter's hinges. A siren sounded off in the distance.

"Can you see what's behind me?" whispered McKinnon.

"Nothing."

"I heard something."

"Right, well, it's not like we're in the midst of a city of twelve million odd people or anything," he hissed back. She slowly rotated in position. He felt the cool ripple of the cloak slide over the two of them.

"Hush!" she murmured. "Sometimes you're as dimwitted as your brother, Black."

He held perfectly still, straining to see in the darkness. They'd put out all the street lights on the block, just in case any Muggles got the wrong idea. Sirius felt his heartbeat slowly increase. He pushed away the panic and fear and settled into a kind of alert trance, his mind narrow and focused, his reflexes taut. This was what he was good at; not being afraid when by all means, he really ought to be. His attention flowed around him, a pool of total awareness of his surroundings forming a ring around the two of them. Four stories above the street, Frank and Alice Longbottom — newly delivered of a baby boy— and Dedalus Diggle were creeping through an apartment with only a single wand between the three of them. Their mission was a secret; it was unwise for the Order's intelligence to be spread amongst more people than was absolutely necessary. Sirius had a single task and a single partner and his job was to do that task whilst keeping himself and his partner alive.

An air conditioner shut off. The sudden absence of white noise made both of them jump.

"What was that?" he whispered.

"Muggle device. Don't worry." Sirius noticed the tiniest glint of light on the white of her eye.

Then they both heard it. A soft noise— familiar. The flapping of wings and a gentle hoot put Sirius' mind slowly at ease. The owl was a splotch of black against navy sky. He was briefly able to glimpse its outline, backlit by a car's headlights as it passed through the intersection. Then the shape disappeared, but its flapping was becoming louder.

"Merlin," muttered McKinnon. "Who'd owl us on duty?"

Sirius could think of quite a few people who would take a risk like that, but two of them were dead, one had disappeared mysteriously and one was incapacitated, which left only two others.

"D'you think it can see through the cloak?" he asked, realizing that if the owl was somehow able to see in the darkness of the alleyway, perhaps its vision was quite a bit keener than his own.

His question was answered when the owl landed on his shoulder, digging its claws into the cloak. Its talons were sharp and painful.

"Damn! Get off—" he felt McKinnon's hand smother his exclamations once again. The owl dropped the envelope on his shoulder and he caught it instinctively with reflexes born out of years of Quidditch drilling. He thought to tear it open, as if he were a Legilimens, he could hear McKinnon's thoughts: Don't. Rip. It. Open. And definitely, don't light your wand. The two of them paused, breathing heavily with anticipation and uncertainty.

Something sounded, like a spark. He heard a crackling and, with a dreadful sinking in his stomach, smelt smoke.

"This better not be what I think it is!" hissed McKinnon. "I'll honestly murder whoever—"

Sirius hurried to make sure the letter was entirely covered by the cloak, even as it grew hot under his fingers and flames burst out, illuminating the red of the envelope. The flap opened on its own.

"No!" he tried to stifle it with his hands, blisters bubbling from the heat, but the envelope yanked its way out of his hands, opened its mouth and wailed.

"What?" whispered McKinnon, uncomprehendingly. She wheeled around to face the letter, her wand held out behind her. She and Sirius listened in horror as the envelope— which was unusually small as envelopes go— _cried_. It hiccupped briefly and then began to yelp like a wounded puppy.

No, not a puppy. "It's Prongs!" Sirius exclaimed, forgetting to keep his voice down. "And Lily! The baby must have–"

"Oh!" McKinnon whooped as quietly as she could muster. It was not often that an owl in the middle of the night brought good news anymore. She laughed. "I should've known. Only one of _yours _would be stupid enough to send a bloody _Howler _while we're _on guard_—"

"Eh, that's Prongs," Sirius half-whispered, half-laughed as he dusted ash off his hands. He winced at the burns. "How far away do I need to get to Apparate without blowing this thing?"

McKinnon grabbed his arm and pulled him somewhat violently beneath the eave of the apartment building. Another car was passing the intersection, this time somewhat slowly. "You're _not _Apparating anywhere. You're on duty until they're finished."

"But it's _Prongs_", whined Sirius. "And Lily. And we don't know how long it'll be or what they're even doing in there."

"And your feet hurt, and it's past your bedtime and blah, blah, blah," she said sternly. "D'you know how important this mission is?"

"D'you know how important my best mate becoming probably the _most_ unsuitable parent in the universe is?" he said haughtily. "What type of friend would I be—"

"—if you blew off Moody's explicit request to stand guard over this mission that he's been planning since April and which could quite possibly attract several ticked-off Death Eaters?"

The Howler began wailing again, as if in response.

"You know," said Sirius, "if I know Prongs, and I do, he'd have that thing bewitched so that it won't stop crying until I get on over there."

McKinnon inhaled sharply, as if to consider his point. The letter began making high-pitched squeals. She glanced back and forth around them.

"We'll get rid of it," she whispered. "You're staying put." She reached for the remains of the burning letter and it jerked out of her reach at the last moment. It fluttered in the air between them, dodging its way out of McKinnon's attempts to grab it.

"So's the letter, I suppose," said Sirius, with a smirk creeping up his cheeks.

McKinnon grimaced. She sighed heavily and eyed the letter with a narrow squint.

Sirius patted her shoulder. "Don't worry," he whispered. "I'll get Caradoc to cover for me. Or someone else. It's going to be alright."

"But is it?" she asked quietly. Their eyes met in the dim light of the smoking letter. Her knuckles were blanched white over her wand.

Sirius put on what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "For you, at least. I've got to get vengeance for the Howler. Poor kid's going to be a ward of the Ministry when I get through with Prongs and Lily," he said and slipped off the cloak quickly, blinking in the dark as Marlene McKinnon disappeared.

* * *

><p><em>Like glass balls like cold streams of logic<em>

Albus Dumbledore was pacing back and forth in his office. A small, ugly winged cherub was hovering above him, waving a fan and occasionally emitting a little fart. The portraits behind him were all sleeping, most of them genuinely— for it was three in the morning— but a few were twitching just a little too frequently.

"Are we to wait here for twenty-four hours, Albus?" asked Minerva. "Surely it's not that urgent that we can't wait and see."

Without looking up at her, he replied, "We are waiting and seeing right here, in my office. When it happens, I want to be the first to know." He glanced up and saw her critical look. "The first to know between myself and Lord Vo—"

Cringing, she interrupted him. "But there's nothing to be done either way. This won't change anything."

He paused and picked up a small glass instrument in which coloured beads of light rose and fell rhythmically . "On the contrary, Minerva. There is quite a lot that will change. I know him. Voldemort never fails to be proactive. He will want to know everything he can about this child and compare it to the other."

Minerva fell silent. She sensed his anticipation, his excitement, even. He was fiddling with the glass instrument, clearly eager to make use of whatever lay inside.

"Does timing make a difference?" she asked.

He paused and gently unhooked the end of his beard from his belt. Stroking the fuzzy tip, Dumbledore said, "Well. That is a question, isn't it."

"I don't understand."

"I expect that Lord _Voldemort_— oh, for heaven's sake, Minerva, it's only a word— will be particularly attuned to the timing, yes. Perhaps I will sound parochial saying this, but Lord Voldemort is somewhat— shall we say, superstitious." Minerva could not help emitting a sniff. He adjusted his spectacles and fixed her with a gentle smile. "My apologies. What I intended to impart to you was just how deeply Tom Riddle reads into symbols, omens of any kind. I realize your father was a minister and a very educated man."

Minerva looked away from Dumbledore and out the window. The scarlet brocade curtains were tied open and no glass stood between the office and the warm midnight gale. Outside, the grounds of the castle were deserted. Hagrid was out in Aberdeen on Order business for the summer, and Dumbledore no longer utilized owl post. A potted larkspur on the windowsill waved in the slight breeze, the only moving thing in the night. Minerva remembered staring at this window, on a warm September night nine years prior, as ten little white fingers curled around the stone corbel's precipice. Another ten fingers, browner and slightly dirtier, appeared at the side of the window. She remembered Pomona's one raised eyebrow as they exchanged looks while a pair of bespectacled eyes rose slowly over the sill. She had said nothing while Filch lectured the staff on the importance of regular corridor inspections, allowing only a small smirk when the bespectacled eyes met with her own and hastily disappeared, along with all twenty fingers.

"Would you like something to drink? Tea? Moonmead?"

"No thank you, Albus."

"Very well, then. I shall have to consume this excellent sangria Horace has prepared on my own." Dumbledore sat down at his desk and jerked his wand quickly. A golden pitcher appeared. He poured a bright pink liquid into a mug patterned with exploding gobstones, which gave occasionally gave off real puffs of smoke. He raised the mug, nodded at her, and took a swig. "Ah. Excellent, as usual. How I do love essence of mulberry." The cherub farted loudly, and then covered his face with one chubby hand in mock embarrassment. He winked at Minerva's glare.

"Albus," she said, hesitantly. "Are you quite sure about the Potter's child? I mean— in terms of the importance..."

Dumbledore smiled cryptically. "Of course not. I am not the least bit sure of anything at all. For all we know, I could have hired a Muggle carnival performer to read palms for us in a tent."

Minerva narrowed her eyes.

"_However_, I am certain that Voldemort is quite certain, as he tends to feel. Therefore, it is imperative that we pay heed to anything to which_ he_ may pay heed. And, yes— there are other reasons. I knew Tom Riddle as a child, as a student and as a young man. And I have cause to believe that this child will be of some considerable significance to him. And that," he said, taking another long sip of the sangria, "is why we are waiting up all night. Umph. Sorry," he said slyly. "Swallowed a whole grape there. I forgot how tricky Horace can be."

But she had not forgotten how tricky Potter could be, especially when he was with Black. And how mischievously innocent their upturned faces had been, as she stood over them in the corridor later that night nine years ago, her wand casting an ethereal glow over their matching expressions. She had never had children, Minerva, though not entirely for want of trying. And many times, in those midnight hallways or stormy rooftops, in exploded storage rooms or even on the midst of the Quidditch pitch mid-game, she had thanked Merlin for having had the sense to refrain from becoming a parent.

"Well, look at that," said Dumbledore quietly. He was eyeing the glass device again, watching a green spark float upward slowly, as a white spark floated down. "Interesting."

It had been two long years since she last stayed up a night brainstorming for punishments without loopholes to exploit. Now she sat in a straight backed chair in the wee hours of the morning of the last day of July and thought she saw, for a split second, the spectre of twenty small fingers once again before her, some smeared with jam, others blotted with drink ink, clinging to the window sill, or snatching up a broom, digging into Christmas pudding, writing two hundred and fifty lines in Minerva's office. It was an odd sensation, the yearning to once again feel her blood pressure rise as she opened a classroom door to find all the furniture stuck to the ceiling with a frustratingly complex charm. Minerva watched sparks exchange places in Dumbledore's machine. Several sparks seemed stuck in the midst, unable to decide which way to go. Meanwhile, one spark was glowing brighter and brighter, making its way right up to the top.

"Minerva," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye. "I do think I ought to pour you a drink. Actually," he stroked his beard, "knowing the house of Gryffindor, I think seven or eight might do the trick."

"Is it— has it—?"

"I think it has, Professor. Or rather, _he _has."

"He..."

Dumbledore nodded and with a flick of his wand, a brass tankard of Moonmead appeared before her.

It was at that moment, precisely three twenty-one in the morning, when Minerva nearly suffered a coronary embolism at the realization that fighting Lord Voldemort was probably going to take less out of her than rearing _another _Potter boy.

* * *

><p>Several hundred miles away in Kent, in a small village called Lower Humphrey Bog, Hestia Jones wiped the sweat off her brow with a scarlet handkerchief. She was labouring over a steaming potion, adding one petal of belladonna every thirty-four seconds. The potion had been simmering since the previous afternoon, and as resident potioneer to the Order of the Phoenix, her job was to brew mysterious concoctions day and night, rather than, say, fly to exotic locales to fight off Dark creatures and duel with her old school rivals. Unlike <em>some <em>people, Hestia's schedule was ordinary and unyielding and required her to wake up at any hour of the night to tend to complex elixirs, draughts as demanding as newborns. There were about two thousand things Hestia would prefer to be doing than plucking petals over the hearth of Dedalus Diggle's cottage in the wee hours of a humid July night, but nobody else in the Order had her patience or her facility with a cauldron. Or rather, nobody but _Lily_, and as Lily was nine months pregnant and could not bend her waist by more than a 30 degree angle, not to mention tolerate the various smells and the awful heat of the ancient 24-gallon pewter pot which served as the Order's trusty, if rusted over communal cauldron, Hestia was left alone to stir the Victory Vat, as she had taken to calling it in bouts of particularly bitter frustration.

She heard a loud thump, followed by several muttered swear words. Without flinching, Hestia sighed and said, "Edgar, I _warned _you that the stairs are jinxed? Can't you just _learn _to use the ladder?"

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "Keep forgetting. Are we going to get that fixed then, or just keep on climbing like we're in a bloody tree house?"

She felt her cheeks burn slightly at the sound of his voice. It was a good thing the fire was so hot. "I think Dumbledore's going to come around and see about it. Mad-Eye tried, but you know he's not much at domestic charms. Did you _remember your wand_, this time?" she asked, pivoting to face him.

Edgar said "Oops," in such a delightfully embarrassed tone that Hestia felt a near-uncontrollable urge to take off his inverted Muggle baseball cap and turn the brim right-side up.

"Sorry 'bout that. Terribly foolish move and all, I left it in the loo. I don't know what's wrong with my head these days," he said and stepped onto the first stair as Hestia lunged to stop him. "Whoops— damned jelly steps! Whose idea— oof!" he exclaimed as the gelatinous stair broke his fall like a jiggling trampoline.

Hestia smiled and gave him a hand up. "Where are you off to then?" Seeing his expression change, she added, "Or am I allowed to ask?"

"I—" he hesitated, fiddling with the curling brim of his cap. A sprig of reddish-blond curls hung over his forehead, matted own by the hat.

"Eddie," she said quietly. "If you can't tell me... Just please be safe."

He smiled lopsidedly at her. Hestia felt the familiar mixture of fear and panicked love bubbling inside her skin like a potion about to froth up and out of her body.

"I'll be perfectly fine," he said cheerily. "I've got a real top drawer partner and it's no big deal— just stand guard, extra pair of eyes, not too complex. Good thing, seeing as my head's on backwards today."

"Who's your partner? I mean— if you can tell me," asked Hestia.

"Kinney, actually. Yeah, she had another partner but I've got to fill in for Sirius Black," he added upon seeing Hestia's brow furrow. "Don't be too concerned, he's fine. Just needed a substitute."

The cause of Hestia's concern was not related to the wellbeing of Sirius Black— if he were harmed, Hestia was pretty sure she would find out by the massive Dark Mark rockets that would explode all over Britain to the tune of "Ding, Dong, the Snitch Is Dead"— but she merely said, "Look out for yourself, Eddie. Be careful."

"Thanks! Now, I'll use the ladder— yes, I remember," he muttered, jumping onto second rung from the floor. "Kinney's pretty good at keeping her ears open, so I should be alright. Plus, " he added, crawling onto the landing of the second floor, "she's got Potter's cloak."

"Right," said Hestia. She suddenly remembered her potion, and hurriedly plucked several more petals of belladonna to add to the stew. It bubbled and the colour deepened from pale yellow to a rich emerald green. It hissed over the heat and a droplet splashed out and hit her in the eye. Hestia resisted the urge to cast a deep-freezing charm over the potion, the fire and probably Edgar too. Perhaps McKinnon could be tempted into doing it herself, if Edgar forgot his wand, or his brain, once again.

"Oh, and I just remembered!" he shouted from upstairs. Edgar emerged from the hallway in a pair of hideously checkered Muggle pants and an orange nylon diving shirt. His wand was tucked awkwardly into his overly-tight back pocket. "Sirius— he's gone to Godric's Hollow to see Potter— and Evans, I mean Lily Potter— she had the baby!"

"You _forgot _to mention that?"

"Erm," he blushed. "Well, see, it's just that Marl— Kinney only sort of mentioned that—"

"Is Lily alright? How's the baby? Is Sirius completely barking, to ditch a Mission at three in the morning!" Hestia shouted over the sinking lump in her throat.

Edgar startled at her yelling and stepped back and to his left in one abrupt gesture...tight onto the first step of the enchanted staircase.

Hestia was about to remand him when a loud crack sounded and a gruff voice beat her to it. "BONES! _What_ did I say about being _AWARE_ OF YOUR SURROUNDINGS at _ALL TIMES_!" The grumpy older man was standing on the coffee table in the middle of Dedalus Diggle's living room, one boot dripping swampy water onto the 18th century lacquered inlay. Hestia and Edgar exchanged anxious looks as a wooden leg popped out of its socket with a nasty squelch.

"Sorry 'bout the stairs, I—"

"I should not have been able to Apparate effortlessly into this_ county_, never mind an Order safe house!" hissed Moody. "You lot are fixing for a right good sneak attack by any Azkaban-addled maniac with a wand." He hopped off the coffee table and grabbed his wooden leg off the floor, shoving the knee back into its socket right before Hestia's repulsed grimace.

Edgar Bones looked up from where he lay, half-submerged in wood grain patterned jelly, and smiled half-heartedly at Moody's roaming blue eye. A chunk of wobbly carpet-jelly glistened on the brim of his baseball cap. Hestia conjured a limp handkerchief and handed it to Moody to clean the coffee table. He promptly blew his nose into it.

"Hello, Mad-Eye, er, sir," whimpered Edgar. "Enchantments went a bit awry, tonight, I'm afraid. We were short staffed 'cos Remus is away."

"Tha's no excuse for _negligent _safety precautions!" Hestia noticed how bloodshot Moody's natural eye was as his giant blue eye whizzed around the cottage. He looked distressed, well— more distressed than usual. She stirred the cauldron, aware of Moody's gaze boring into her through the back of his head, even as he glared at Edgar's collapse behind her.

Edgar said in a small voice, "Potter had— I mean, Lily," he started again. "It's a baby."

"Well, I guess it wasn't going to be a Kneazle now, would it?" Moody said belligerently.

"A boy, I mean. " Edgar pulled himself up onto his elbows. In spite of herself, Hestia smiled at the mess of jelly staining the diving shirt. _It was a boy_. James would be glad, Sirius probably even more so. Lily would be glad that she would not have to trust James with handling a daughter. The daughter-that-never-was was probably glad not to have been born to James Potter.

Moody knocked the floor with his staff and said, "Ah, well. Life doesn't stop for You-Know-Who. Or kids. I'm going to take a knock about this place and cast some decent defensive spells." He took off for Diggle's kitchen, wand held out in front of him at shoulder height like a torch.

She turned around and caught Edgar's wink. Blushing, she said, "Mad-Eye's always been _so _sentimental."

"Aah, children. Only thing he loves more than surprises." They giggled in unison. She tried not to think about babies, particularly babies with reddish peach fuzz and dazed expressions. They were in a war, after all. She was not the only one who would have to make sacrifices, not that she really had anything to sacrifice anyway.

"Well, then." He cleared his throat. "Duty calls. I'll be back by this afternoon, hopefully in one piece. Or at least Kinney will be."

Hestia nodded and swallowed her thought. She returned to the hearth to check on her potion's progression. It was inching along, though her neglectful timing would lessen the potency by at least ten percent. She turned and opened her mouth to remind Edgar to take his Remembrall but he had already disappeared to the garden, ready to Apparate off into another world.

* * *

><p>"I don't think I can drink any more of this," burbled Thomas Trelawney. "You can't just—"<p>

"No! Heavens, no! One does not simply _vanish _the steeped sustenance of fate ! Go on, drink up, go on."

"Ulp," he swallowed heavily. Tea was dripping down his neck, staining the white collar of his robes. The robes were bewitched to repel stains, but apparently not dampness and smells.

"I see you are nearing the end of your drink, dear brother. How extraordinarily close we are!"

"I hope so," he whimpered. The teacup— more like tea cauldron— was growing lighter in his hands, even as his bladder grew heavier. He felt nauseated. The incense burning beneath Sybill's tented ceiling was supposed to be essence of ambrosia but it smelled quite a bit more like dragon refuse.

Sybill clapped her hands together excitedly, causing the wand in her right hand to emit a pathetic little spurt of rose-tinted water, which dripped onto her skirt. "How close we are! Soon, we will find out," she inhaled deeply and lowered her voice to a stage whisper, "whether your _beloved _returns your affection or whether you are condemned to the life of solitude, celibacy and loneliness!"

"Erm, it's not _that_ serious."

Her eyebrows shot up above gigantic round-rimmed glasses. "Thomas! _Love_, that most mysterious of all elements of the universe, the uniting force of destiny, the _drive _that _summons_—"

"Yeah, I know, I mean, but... I just wanted to know if it's worth asking her for a go round Hogsmeade this fall," he said timidly. She glared at him through magnified eyes and he hastily swallowed the rest of the tea. Thomas felt a sinking feeling that had little to do with his bladder (though that was also sinking.) He knew this would be a bad idea. He _knew _that this was a capital B, capital I, Bad Idea.

But Nana had asked him to look in on his older sister, make sure she was safe from harm, not anywhere that the Death Eaters could find her. Or at least to make sure that the Death Eaters did not _want _to find her. And Sybill had been so glad to see him, so excited for any kind of company at all that he would feel terrible about leaving without letting her read his leaves. It had been more than half a year since they last saw each other at Christmas. Sybill had had to go into hiding in the spring for mysterious reasons. Thomas had only found out she was living in what appeared, from the outside, to be a rusted-out camper caravan in Cannock Chase Forest two days ago before. He had received a cryptic letter written in deep violet ink and stamped with the unmistakably misshapen wax seal that read TBZ— Sybill had never quite figured out that the letters had to be reversed.

Thomas drained the last few dregs in the giant teacup and set it down on the chipped glass end-table before him. Sybill was bustling about the caravan, charming shut the faded yellow curtains with her wand. The inside of the caravan was living-room sized, spacious if mostly empty. A small camp bed with a fold-out canopy sat next to an old-fashioned wood-burning stove, its cold oven stuffed with books.

"Hominem revelio!" whispered Sybill, her wand pointing out the window from between a crack in the curtains.

"There's nobody around here for miles," he said lightly to her, and burped.

"You may not see anybody," she whispered, "but the _Inner Eye_ reveals! Darkness everywhere—"

"It's the middle of the night."

"—all around us, there are those who would wish us harm!, Well," she adjusted her spectacles with a trembling hand, "wish _me _harm. I do not take readings lightly."

Thomas considered saying something to assuage her fears— perhaps something along the lines of "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is unlikely to care about whether or not Miranda Malkin is interested in going on a date with a teenaged Ravenclaw boy come fall, regardless of whether or not he is the great-grandson of Cassandra Trelawney"— but just as he opened his mouth, he noticed the pale tan lines across Sybill's fingers— her rings were gone, and she wasn't wearing any earrings either. In fact, Sybill was dressed in an uncharacteristically plain fashion, wearing only one gauze scarf, her magnified eyes strangely naked without any makeup. She came towards him and reached for his teacup, turning it over onto a cracked saucer. A dribble of brownish water fell onto the glass table top.

"Let us see," she breathed. A quiet crack, like the snapping of a branch, sounded from somewhere outside the caravan. Sybill's head snapped to the side and she made a jerking movement, as if to head to the window and then decided not to. Thomas felt his pulse deepen, though he could not say why. There was no reason to be afraid.

Her pupils had grown large. Sybill quickly removed the overturned teacup with a quivering flourish. She leaned over the saucer and squinted at the sludgy remains of the tea. Thomas could smell her heavy breath under his nose; something like cherry and liquorice and broom polish. She bit her lip and furrowed her brow at the leaves, which looked like little more than the shape of an old boot to Thomas.

"Alright, Sybill?" he asked hesitantly.

She ignored him and reached into her pocket to remove her wand. She poked the grit of tea with it and for an instant, the cup glowed with bright white light.

"Aaah," she said. "Excellent. Wonderful."

"So, she's interested then?"

"What?" Sybill jerked back from the cup, her curly hair swinging wildly close to a stick of burning incense.

"Miranda. You know? The girl I asked about..."

"Haha. Miranda. No, no, something so _trivial _cannot be asked of the spirits!" She choked out a nervous laugh. "The fates have alerted me to the presence of a visitor approaching my home! A presence..."

Thomas felt his hand close on his wand instinctively, and glanced about the caravan. He wasn't used to getting this anxious about strangers— he was a pureblood, after all— but Sybill had gone into _hiding_, presumably for a reason. "D'you need me to— I'm of age now, you know—" he stammered.

"Not at all, Thomas! I am feeling a spirit," she closed her eyes and stretched out her hands above the teacup, absentmindedly dropping her wand into the sludge, "a benevolent presence. There is news."

Thomas fell silent. He felt uncomfortably unsure of this latest development in the unending drama of his sister's life— drama which was usually of her own making. In the dim light of the caravan, a shadow flickered over the camper stove, cast through the crack between the curtains. He continued to grasp his wand, feeling somewhat young and incompetent. Sybill was gazing down at the tea leaves and fiddling with the index finger of her right hand, where a rose-shaped ring carved from elm usually rested. Usually, she also wore the silver and opal ring handed down from Nana, gifted to the eldest daughter of the youngest generation upon her first vision. It was also gone; and Thomas wondered uneasily if she had had to sell off these few valuable possessions or if they had been taken from her by force.

Thomas heard a abrupt sound, like crab apples falling from a tree in the wind. He startled upon realizing that it was actually a person knocking on the window by the driver's door. Sybill rushed to the window and peered out, moonlight painting a streak of silver across her curls. He got up and rushed to her side. The knocker was an old woman, hunched and wrinkled. She wore a grey pointed hat and carried a large dragon-skin bag with one shrunken hand.

"Care for a look, my dear? Only twenty Sickles for the lot," the woman wheezed to Sybill, smiling as she lifted an ivory comb and matching mirror out of her bag. Her teeth were small, with noticeable gaps between each one. Thomas felt a shiver run up his spine. Sybill squinted at the mirror, and reached to unlock the door. He grabbed her arm instinctively.

"Are you mad?" he hissed. "You're supposed to be in hiding! How on earth—"

"Don't be foolish! That was the code!" she said dismissively and opened the door. The old woman stepped inside and feebly rested against the table, placing her bag down onto Thomas's chair. She handed the mirror to Sybill.

"This is from Albus," said the old woman briskly in a much less creaky voice. "Mad-Eye would also like me to remind you that your defensive precautions leave much to be desired."

"Mrs. Bagshot, I assure you that my vision permits me to screen my visitors _well in advance_ of their arrival!" said Sybill peevishly.

Mrs. Bagshot smiled again. "Sybill, while Albus has faith in your Inner Eye, I would like you to remember that even the Inner Eye has an eyelid."

"I have spoken to Professor Dumbledore myself, and he has _assured _me of his confidence in my abilities—"

"Abilities which will prove much more helpful while you remain _alive, _Sybill," said Mrs. Bagshot dryly. Thomas threw his sister a sympathetic look, though he privately agreed with the old woman. She withdrew a shiny red apple from her bag and proceeded to shine it with a satin handkerchief. Sybill turned over the mirror, examining it in the candlelight. Thomas crept behind her and peeked at it over her shoulder. It appeared to be a normal hand mirror, although it was clearly old. The glass was sepia-tinted and several dark speckles marred the surface. Sybill tilted it left and right, then aimed it at her mouth and spoke into it questioningly.

"_Catoptici alveni_?"

Thomas wondered how she was casting a spell without her wand; however his thought was interrupted by the voice emerging from the glass.

"Why, Sybill dear, you are not so unfortunate looking yourself!"

"What?"

The man's voice chuckled. "Never mind— Muggle reference there...I forget how far apart our cultures find ourselves, living side-by-side as we are."

Thomas recognized the Headmaster's voice; but why would he want to speak to Sybill personally? He was a very busy man...

"Who have you got there behind you? Are you safe?" he asked, sounding concerned.

"Only my brother, sir. " She turned around and scowled at him, motioning with her arm for him to step out of sight. "He's fine, sir. Mrs. Bagshot is also here."

Mrs. Bagshot raised her eyebrows and bit into the apple, crunching so loudly that Thomas felt as though his own head was being crushed into pulp by that terrifying set of tiny yellow teeth.

"Hello, Bathilda. Thank you for responding to my message so quickly. I realize the hour is quite late. I would express my apologies for waking you at this most unmagical time in the night but my sensibilities tell me it is unlikely that sleep found you in its tender grasp this evening."

Thomas found his elderly Headmaster's use of the phrase "tender grasp" distinctly unmagical. He reached for the comb lying on the chair, eager to examine what magical properties it had.

"Sybill," said the voice from the mirror, "the matter we discussed several months ago has come to full fruition tonight. I will wish to speak with you once a suitable time can be found in the morning. Do not attempt to contact me, and do not leave your home; I will come to you personally."

She looked taken aback. Scratching her head, with one hand, Sybill said, "...the matter we discussed? Has Jupiter—"

Thomas tried not to look shocked that Dumbledore would want to discuss anything with his sister, let alone come to see her personally. What on earth were they talking about?

"The _other_ topic of discussion. Bathilda, if it is necessary, please remind Sybill of the importance of this matter. _Privately_," added Dumbledore. Sybill nodded vigorously, as though she suddenly remembered. Though he possessed only the Outer Eyes, Thomas felt Mrs. Bagshot's gaze boring his downcast head. He heard her swallow and cough significantly towards his sister.

Sybill turned to him, and snatched the comb from his hands. "Don't touch that!"

"It's just a comb—"

Mrs. Bagshot snickered delicately.

"It was delivered specially to _me_!" she snapped. Twin flames flickered in the reflection of her glasses as if her eyes were alight.

"Albus," said Mrs. Bagshot as she spat the pips of her apple into an embroidered handkerchief, "Do you want me to send for Alastor? He might provide additional security." She tapped her handkerchief with her wand and whispered "_Evanesco_."

Sybill handed the mirror to Mrs. Bagshot, who continued her conversation with Dumbledore more quietly, her lowered voice echoed in Dumbledore's whispered instructions. Thomas could not hear what they were talking about, but it sounded Serious, Important and Secret, like most of what Dumbledore did. He knew that Dumbledore was leading the movement against You-Know-Who, but why a creaky old scholar like Mrs. Bagshot was important, he did not know.

"Sybill," came the voice from the mirror more loudly, addressing his sister through Mrs. Bagshot's knobby knuckles. "Please use the comb and then return it to Bathilda." Dumbledore's voice was calm, quietly authoritative.

"_Now_?"

"Yes."

"Here? But why—"

"I can't think of where else," Dumbledore cut her off, the humour in his voice still belying a darker undercurrent.

Thomas noticed her shooting a glance at him and then at Mrs. Bagshot, who nodded slightly. Sybill's fingers trembled somewhat as she slowly raised the comb to her hair. The teeth were long and fine, the comb's back edge carved into a pattern of swirls broken up by rigid whiplashes, vaguely Celtic in design. Sybill raked it through her hair at the scalp, and though her hair was kinky and surely full of knots, it glided through effortlessly, forming a ghostly trail of perfectly straight, shining locks that shone silver and then faded away a second later. When she drew it away from her hair, a faint trail of silvery steam seemed to stretch from her scalp, tugged along by the comb. Thomas watched her facial expression morph from anxious concern to something neutral as if anaesthetized. A small smile grew across her lips and she handed the comb, inexplicably, to Thomas.

He took it and examined it closer to a candle. The ghostly steam formed a little puddle in the palm of his hand. It had no texture— no feeling at all; yet the comb felt strangely cold, more than he would expect. A strange feeling twisted Thomas' stomach— part defensive urge, and part mesmerizing curiosity. The Ravenclaw in him took hold.

"What is this...sir?" He asked. Mrs. Bagshot scrutinized him with a narrow eye, and then held up the mirror to his face, so that he could look directly into the piercing blue eye reflected in it. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Mr. Trelawney— Thomas, isn't it?" Dumbledore asked in a gently unreadable tone. "Ravenclaw, if I am not mistaken. I am surprised that you do not know. It is a comb. One uses it to neaten one's hair, though it also proves useful to those with beards of a certain length. I have even heard rumours of its utility as a back-scratching device, for more adventurous sorts." The eye twinkled. Thomas raised an eyebrow unconsciously. There were quite a few answers he had been prepared to receive, and none of them involved his one hundred-fifty year old headmaster explaining to him he purpose of an ordinary hairbrush.

"You know, Mr. Trelawney, at my age, one can be forgiven for assuming that certain things are, shall we say, common knowledge. But even the wise can be mistaken. The young man who gave loaned me this delightful mirror, for example, was also unfamiliar with the concept of hair care."

At this, Mrs. Bagshot coughed significantly, and Dumbledore said, "Well, now, I suppose I am getting off track. Go on then and give it a try. It doesn't hurt— well, not if you practise decent hygiene, anyway."

As if in a trance, Thomas felt himself raise the comb to his head. His curiosity overtook his misgivings and he gently combed his hair down from the part. A lovely, cooling sensation spread across his head and through his mind, settling around his thoughts like a dawn's mist. It occurred to him gradually that he no longer felt any curiosity whatsoever about Mrs. Bagshot's visit, nor the reason Dumbledore was contacting his sister via two-way mirror. In fact, for the first time in his life, he felt no curiosity whatsoever. It was simply none of his business what Dumbledore chose to get up to during the summer holidays and Thomas knew that whatever reason the Headmaster had for contacting his sister did not concern him.

He took the dragonskin bag off his chair and handed it to Mrs. Bagshot with the comb, then sat down numbly.

"You will wait for the Headmaster to contact you in the morning, won't you Sybill?" she said sternly in a tone disturbingly reminiscent of Thomas' Transfiguration professor.

"Yes," she responded, still looking vaguely relaxed.

"You will not discuss this matter with anyone other than the Headmaster, including your brother or even me."

"Of course not, Mrs. Bagshot."

"You will blow out these ridiculously smelly candles and get a decent night's sleep, at least as much of the night as is left."

"...what?" she asked, running her fingers absentmindedly through her hair. Thomas felt very sleepy all of a sudden. He thought blowing out the candles was a perfectly good idea.

Mrs. Bagshot rose and went to the door, the tip of her pointy hat knocked askew by the love beads hanging from the low ceiling.

"Thomas," she paused at the doorway, "Please put up some halfway protective wards, or at least make sure that herbal Stinksap rubbish takes out any errant Death Eaters along with you two. And keep _this _safe. Goodnight, dear." And with that, she sent the hand mirror to him with a flick of her wand, shut the caravan's door and Disapparated with a _bang _that rattled the love beads against the window, her wand imprinting a flicker of lightning where it disappeared into thin air. Thomas walked over to the camp bed and sat down in a daze, feeling the cool ivory of the mirror's handle in his palm, not noticing how it reflected the illusion of lightning just a split second too long, at an angle just a wee bit improbable for an ordinary two-way mirror.

* * *

><p><em>And I prayed as the lightning attacked<em>

"Dolohov," called out the cloaked figure sitting by the window.

"Present, my lord.

"Crouch."

"Present."

"Rodolphus."

"Present."

The cloaked figure sighed with pleasure. "Bella..."

"Right here, my lord," she whispered throatily from her place on the floor by his armchair. A light breeze ruffled the figure's cloak and skirts He wore rather too many layers for a sweltering midsummer's night, but did not appear to be sweating.

"Several gentlemen in this room could learn something about punctuality from Bellatrix over here. I called you to this meeting at this hour because I meant to speak with you _now_. Already, I see there is an absence," said Lord Voldemort.

At that moment, the heavy oak door swung open. For a brief moment, there seemed to be no one standing in the doorway. Then the moon emerged from behind a cloud and cast a ray of bluish light across the slouching man with the long, greasy hair.

"Snape," said the Dark Lord. "To what do we owe the honour of your tardiness?"

Snape swallowed. For a moment he considered not answering, simply running out and Disapparating into the dark. "My lord. I was— temporarily indisposed. Forgive me," he said with a curt bow.

The Dark Lord's eyes seemed to flash redder for a moment, but he merely exhaled and turned his chair towards the window, away from the assembled men and Bellatrix. Gazing out at the waxing moon, he tapped his wand on the woven leading between the windowpanes. Several blue sparks shot out of it and travelled along the perimeter of the diamond shaped panes and one by one, each paned fogged over until only a faint haze of moonlight glowed through.

"Our meeting here tonight is private," said Voldemort quietly. "I have only summoned my most loyal, most trusted of servants. Dolohov. Bella. Rodolphus. Bartemius. You should feel honoured to have earned such trust."

He was answered with silence. Bellatrix grinned wickedly and then gave him a pout. Rodolphus reached over to pat her hand. A ghost of a smile flickered on Crouch's lips. In the dimly lit room, he looked even younger than he was. Snape glared at him and then looked down.

"Snape. I am not impressed by your most recent performance, nor by your presumption in requesting exemptions from certain duties to which your peers are consigned. This is not to be made habit. I will not have my vassals think themselves above common duty.""

Bellatrix's laughter was cut off abruptly by Crouch's silent incantation. She shot him a challenging look, but his expression was stony.

"_How_ever, the intelligence you have gathered on my behalf was most useful. Lord Voldemort rewards his servants for their achievements." The Dark Lord paused, as if to gather his thoughts. Snape drew a breath, hoping against hope, wishing for a window, if not a doorway, to appear from solid rock.

"You ought to reward him with a nice Tortus Curse, my Lord," said Bellatrix. "I think _Sevewus_ would love to take it on behalf of his—"

"Enough, Lestrange," said Crouch firmly. "You think you can interrupt the Dark Lord?" She pointed her wand at him, but he was quicker; both were about to fire when Voldemort calmly slashed his wand through the air. Twin gashes appeared on each of their wand arms. Crouch winced and grabbed his arm, while Bellatrix only stopped to look at hers with mild interest.

"There will be no further interruptions tonight," said the Dark Lord loftily. "I will not repeat myself. As all of you know, I was made aware of a prophecy several months ago, a prophecy which concerned myself and one other person. _Do not interrupt_, Rodolphus. The full contents of the prophecy are known to myself and whomsoever I have chosen to convene with, but all of you know that we have been awaiting the birth of a child which it mentioned. Bartemius, Dolohov and I have discussed the matter and we have narrowed it down to two possible children who fit the Seer's description. Lower your hand, Bellatrix, I have Legilimency enough to ignore your questions for the moment." He paused.

Rodolphus was smiling at his wife, who gazed at Voldemort with a rapturous expression. Snape swallowed his own bile. He tightened his mind, inviting the learned blankness to conceal his thoughts. That Voldemort referred to _Crouch_ of all people on first-name terms—well, it was to be expected of the Lestranges, as there were three of them, but a freckly teenage boy... Crouch stared forward at the wall, his eyes fixed on nothing, though Snape could tell he was thinking hard. He was arguably the most intelligent in the room, aside from the Dark Lord. His youth was his strength, aside from his family connections; nobody would suspect such a sweet young man of anything, unlike Severus. It was not in Snape's nature to fear the brilliance of another his own age and he despised his own lack of confidence in Crouch's presence.

"What all of you must know, and what I will explain later to all my Death Eaters, is that the child _must be killed_ and that I will do it _personally_. Before I reveal the names of the parents, I will warn you: if the child is found and killed by one of my Death Eaters, the repercussions will be most severe." Voldemort turned away from the window to face the group. His pale white face was devoid of sweat, but a single vein pulsed by his temple. How strange it was to see this proof his own humanity— that he should have blood, and veins and a heart.

"But, my lord—" Rodolphus began.

"Silence!" Voldemort cut him off, then flicked a tongue-tying jinx his way. Bellatrix giggled and the Voldemort gave her a look which Snape could only interpret as the Dark Lord's version of a smile.

"A week ago, the Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom had a baby boy. He is one possible subject of the prophecy. Tonight, I received intelligence that the second boy was born, to the wife of James Potter."

Snape struggled to maintain the wall of blankness in his mind. It took all of his Occlumency training and then some to avoid noticing that Voldemort had chosen to word the message so cruelly.

Voldemort look Snape right in the eye and he quickly looked away, feelings the laser-sharpness of his Legilimency honing in. "I want both children found and I want them taken _alive_ directly to _me_. The parents I would like to have questioned, so capturing alive is my preference— however, if their efforts are threatening to impede the children's capturing, they may be killed. This task will not be as simple as it seems. Make no mistake— Dumbledore's minions will be doing all they can to prevent the children from being found. Frank and Alice Longbottom are extremely well-trained and powerful Aurors, both from ancient pureblood families. They are not to be underestimated. The Potter couple is less known to me, but they have proven themselves skilled in battle over the past two years. Both couples are under Dumbledore's fullest protection. It will take some effort, but they _will be found_ and I will personally reward any of my servants who does the finding."

Bellatrix slowly licked her lips and leaned closer in to the armchair. Snape could see the cogs and gears of her insane mind working at lightening speed. Her gaze bored into him and she tossed back her head, shaking a lock of black hair off her face. She was beautiful, in a terrifying way, her heavy eyelids overshadowing eyes liquid-grey as diamonds sunk into a dark lake. She had the Black family high cheekbones, and a devilish grin nearly identical to that of Snape's old school tormentor, now mortal foe.

Then, in a quiet, nearly gentle voice, the Dark Lord spoke. "Bellatrix." She turned to look up at him. "The parents will likely need some persuasion when they are questioned. _You _will be responsible for this. Refrain from the Cruciatus as long as there is something of use left in their minds. When there is not anything of value to us left, you may do as you see fit. I will have faith in your judgement."

It was very hot in the room. Voldemort issued a high, cold laugh, and said, "I am finished here." He slipped one hand into the pocket of his robes and withdrew a single scrap of paper, barely larger than a postage stamp. It was red, with charred edges burnt black. Voldemort lifted it up, as if to display it to the group, though his voice was barely audible when he said, "Happy birthday, little Potter."

* * *

><p>Several rays of sun sliced their way between the barred windows, illuminating floating puffs of dust. In the basement flat on Vallance Road, Doxies nibbled at a folded pile of afghans on top of a Muggle washing machine which had never seen much use. The air smelled metallic, rife with something earthy and sharp.<p>

With a wince, Remus Lupin crooked his elbow up to shield his eyes from the sunlight. A salty dribble of essence of Murtlap ran down his arm and into his mouth. The sunlight was bright but not yet overly warm; it must have been early in the morning, he reasoned. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the pain spark through his wrist. The bandages cut off his range of movement, but he was still able to reach for his wand with the injured arm, though leaning over made his half-healed ribs twinge unpleasantly. While lying in bed, he went through his morning ritual of wand-flicking and quiet muttering. Lupin was undoing various protective spells and wards, the odd tangle of ancient words, muscle memory and arcing beams of light that protected him while he slept alone.

The doorless refrigerator he used as a bookshelf shimmered slightly as Lupin removed the final enchantment. Bruegel, the goldfish that swam in the vegetable crisper eyed him suspiciously.

"Go on, then," he said. "Eat your potato peels and do laps or whatever it is you creatures do and let me suffer my injuries in peace."

Bruegel narrowed his eyes in a distinctly un-fishlike manner and then swam up to the surface of the crisper to nibble on floating biscuit crumbs.

Lupin relaxed back and gazed at the stains on the ceiling. He could have charmed it clean, but then, where was the fun in that? The Death Eaters would find him anyways and subject him to various unpleasantries much worse than living in a one-room basement flat in Whitechapel. That is, if the other werewolves didn't turn on him first.

He considered getting up to brush his rancid-smelling teeth, but his ribs disagreed. Not that it was anything he wasn't used to, but the curse Rookwood had thrown him was making the healing process take much longer than usual. Lupin hadn't behaved like such a child about his injuries since he _was _one.

"_Accio_ thermos!" he said. The thermos zoomed towards him and knocked him on the brow of his already-blackened eye. He had taken to putting his food and drinks into portable containers for this very purpose. Lupin unscrewed the thermos and gulped down the last two mouthfuls of cold tea left over. A childhood half-spent as an invalid had taught him a few handy tricks when it came to the art of recuperating in bed.

"Bruegel," he said lightly, "are there any biscuits left that aren't waterlogged?"

Bruegel exhaled a stream of bubbles at him.

"Don't you remember what happened to my Paris toast?"

The fish became very interested in cleaning out a corner of the crisper, which funnily enough, was already spotless.

"Aaah, well," Lupin sighed, "I suppose I'll just starve until Dearborn-yesterday comes to play Healer. I know, I know, Bruegel, that wasn't a very nice thing to say aloud to a goldfish in my private home."

Brueghel's gills flared open and shut convulsively as his belly shook.

Lupin shut his eyes and imagined a nice tomato and egg sandwich on rye zooming towards him. The fantasy did not include soggy tomato bits getting flung all over his walls, although Lupin knew from experience that that was what would indeed happen if he were to Summon a sandwich from bed.

"How is magic so utterly useless?" he asked the dusty air. A Doxy buzzed at him aggressively. The truth was, if he weren't so useless at charms, magic probably _could _solve the sandwich-summoning problem. That was the sort of thing Lily was good at. "Oh, Prongs," he said drily, "where are you when I need your wife?" And with that, Lupin felt a gentle nuzzling at his uninjured hand by something velvety soft and cool. He cracked open an eye and saw the bluish-white spectre lick at his palm.

How queer that Prongs should appear right at the moment. It was almost like magic.

Lupin lazily petted the stag's nose, his hand occasionally dipping through the Patronus's permeable skin. He felt a smooth antler worry his pillow, prodding it. Neither solid nor entirely vaporous, the pillow was dislodged only slightly, just enough for Lupin to ask, "What is it? I haven't got the Cloak."

The Patronus snorted a stream of dust at Lupin, who had closed his eyes again. He opened them, squinting at Prongs' glowing head. He nudged at Lupin more insistently and then jerked his head towards Lupin's doorway. James never _had_ quite gotten the art of sending a speech with his messenger Patronus, probably because he had been spoiled by his reliance on the two-way mirrors. Interpreting James' and Sirius' nonverbal Patronus messages, which were conveyed via charades, miming or interpretive dance, had become something of an inside joke amongst those members of the Order who were not yet ready to send an Avada Kedavra their way.

"Alright, alright...keep your antlers on..." he murmured, following the stag's gaze. The glowing white was more difficult to see in the sunny, striped light cast through Lupin's window, but he could tell that another Patronus was lingering in front of the door by the light reflected off his toaster. _Hunter's camouflage_, he thought— how that would annoy James! (He was surprisingly sensitive about hunting jokes.) It was difficult to see exactly whose it was, as the thing seemed to be leaning over and was partially obscured by the foot of the bed. He watched the stag walk over to join the second Patronus. It leaned over to look down at whatever the other thing was nosing at, its long neck tracing an elegant curve that echoed the sloping neck of the smaller Patronus.

It was a doe. Lupin found himself smiling mildly as the stag's vaporous antlers accidentally impaled the doe when he took a step closer to it, but the doe took no notice (did it even feel such things?). It was paying attention to whatever was hidden by the bed and had not even looked up when Lupin spoke. The stag took another step towards the doe and then looked up at Lupin imploringly.

"I'd get up if I could, mate," he said. "Sorry."

The stag nudged the doe, nuzzling its neck with a tenderness that made something warm and deep and sad wash through Lupin's chest. How odd to observe a moment so private, a moment belonging to a friend, in one's own home.

The doe finally looked up at Lupin. He gave it a gentle nod. Meanwhile, the stag was prodding at something as if to urge it forward. The doe joined it, moving along slowly around Lupin's bed, past the open trunk and the bicycle leaning against the wall. Lupin caught the stag's look of curiosity at the bike, its shimmering white tail flaring upward for a moment.

They two Patronuses made their way around the side of the bed at last, and the doe leaned forward to nibble at Lupin's pillow affectionately. It looked at his injured arm and bandaged torso, then back at the stag, who was urging forward something small and dotted with brightly glowing spots.

Two big eyes looked up at him with startling frankness. Its head was small, with huge ears twitching in the sunlight. It was barely tall enough to look at Lupin over the bed without its throat brushing the sheets. Lupin reached forward to pet the fawn, but it quivered and jerked back instinctively. The stag reassured it with an uncharacteristically gentle nuzzle to the rump.

Lupin opened his mouth, but somehow, the words didn't come out. He flattened his hand, palm upright, and watched the fawn approach it slowly, cautiously. It bit his thumb, but there was no pain as the fawn sucked on his fingers. Its little mouth felt like wind and fog and swirling water. The stag stood tall, gazing down at the fawn with barely concealed pride.

He found a hoarse breath. "Hullo," he whispered. "You're a precocious one, aren't you?"

It occurred to Lupin then how much he wished his Patronus form did not make him ashamed.

* * *

><p><em>That something would make it go crack<em>

"Ow!"

"What's wrong?"

"He nearly bit my finger off!"

"Well, maybe you ought not to put it in his mouth, then," said Sirius almost earnestly.

"I don't— but how does he even have _teeth_ yet?"

"They'll shrink down in a half hour, or so, Lily," said James casually. "He's just fussy over being woken up."

"Looks more like fangs to me," observed Peter Pettigrew, as he climbed up the steep wooden steps and into the cottage's loft. The baby's teeth were visible from across the room.

"Is this normal? Should I be concerned?"

Lupin smiled. "You should've seen my mam, when I was growing up. You think being Muggle-born is bad enough..."

" S'not so bad. In _my_ family, babies would fart actual mustard gas—" began Sirius, but Lupin cut him off with a gentle shake of the head. Lily gave him a grateful smile, her hair falling over her face as she leaned down to give the baby a kiss on the cheek. He responded by breaking into a fresh round of tears. James, who looked befuddled and dead tired and radiant all at once, patted her arm and smiled down at the baby, his crooked glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.

"At least we know he's not a Squib," said James. "Not with those chompers...though it might still be your magic wearing off."

"James! If he were a Squib, we wouldn't be in— in all this mess," she chided and turned to the baby."Mummy loves you, my little turnip, even if you're no good at potions and think Quidditch makes no sense from a game theory perspective—"

"Ahem!" sniffed James, in mock offense. "The line. There it was, see? You have crossed it. The line that was not to be crossed. There it goes."

"Goodbye, line!" cried Sirius and the baby joined him in a wail of deepest sorrow. Pettigrew thought the baby's red face was more tomato than turnip-like, but he kept his thoughts to himself, and poured himself another shot of Ogden's greatest. He needed it.

"I'll have another too, if you don't mind," said Lupin. He handed his glass to Pettigrew, who refilled it to the top. Lupin looked even more beat than James, and that was saying something, as James had been up for something like forty straight hours. The new bruises and scars he sported didn't look like the ordinary claw marks of their childhood; Lupin must have had at least one broken rib and his right arm was bandaged from bicep to palm. Pettigrew tried to focus on James' more domestic brand of exhaustion so as to avoid the ache of ambient fear that surrounded them now whenever his friends met all together.

"C'mere, Peter," said Lily, kindly. "You haven't met him proper, have you? Go on..."

Pettigrew came over to join her, sitting down on the bed beside her. The mattress sunk down uncomfortably beneath him— it was old-fashioned and had no box springs. Pettigrew smiled at the blanket-wrapped squashed tomato Lily was holding tenderly, its juices running from from eyes squeezed shut and wide-open mouth. Pettigrew was not terribly fond of babies, but it was _James'_ baby and he had half-expected it to be born with a knowing smirk and a miniature Quaffle in its tiny hands, mugging for Lily's attention and soiling itself intentionally when things got dull. But from up close, it looked more like an angry vegetable than James Potter.

"Hullo," he said awkwardly, and gave it a wink. "Aren't you, er...a handsome one, then..."

The snicker he heard was probably Sirius, but James was also a possibility.

Lily was flushed and looked tired, but she smiled broadly and rocked the baby back and forth, jiggling him in her arms. James gave Pettigrew a sheepish grin.

"He's, uh, been a bit cranky this morning...and, er, last night as well," said James. He was tossing up and catching a plushie dragon neurotically; each time he caught it, it squeaked and let out a breath of red steam. "I s'pose he's not so chuffed about the whole 'being born' thing, but Lily can get him to calm down for a bit with the bouncing."

"Shake the tears out, Prongs," said Sirius evenly.

"That's the idea, yeah."

"You two," said Lily, shaking her head with a smile. James leaned over to peck her on the cheek and his glasses slid off entirely. "I ought to get bunk beds and put you up with him in the nursery. But Padfoot would probably enjoy that way too much. Maybe a shared cell, then."

"That is much more wise, Lily," said Lupin. "Speaking from experience, I do not recommend those two share a room with your son unless you wish for him to asphyxiated by unspeakable odours." James put his glasses back on and shook his bangs out of his eyes instinctively.

Pettigrew felt more comfortable with this line of familiar banter, and joined in. "Prongs is married, Moony. You forget he showers at least monthly now." The stuffed dragon hit him square on forehead with a loud squeak before he could even shrink back. This seemed to please the baby, as it stopped crying abruptly and made a much more pleasant gurgling noise.

"Alright, alright, give him here," said Sirius and he reached to take the baby from Lily. "Godfather's privilege. Well, he's quite a bit heavier than I expected! And I thought you were just hogging all the treacle tart while Prongs had Spattergroit."

James turned ashen-faced. "We don't speak of that."

"I think," said Lupin mildly, "you meant _you _don't speak of that." Peter reached for a glass. It was awfully stuffy up in the loft, but the window was glued shut with something like mashed squirrel guts and couldn't even be blasted open. It was only a temporary home— one of the many safe houses Lily and James had gone through in the past seven months, ever since they they had found out about the prophecy.

Sirius tickled the baby, but he didn't seem all that amused. His mouth hung open, drooling onto the blanket. Only his big eyes moved, darting around the room, following the sounds of the voices.

"Well," said Sirius, "turns out the secret's simple. Just nail Wormy in the head with a projectile object and it turns the sound off."

James grinned at him. "I'd have no trouble with that, except we'd have to get Peter to stay with us all day and night."

"You mean, turn our home into a schoolboys' dormitory? No thanks," said Lily, tweaking James' ear with an affectionate smirk. "And before you ask, Peter, no, we haven't settled on a name for the turnip yet."

"We're waiting 'till he doesn't look like a vegetable anymore, see," said James. "Give him here, Padfoot."

"And make him bawl again?" Sirius said cynically. "I think not. He likes me. Don't you, turnip?" He crossed his eyes at the baby and stuck out his tongue. Peter saw a tiny fist reach out and attempt to grab it. "Isn't it funny when I have lazy crossed eyes like your Daddy?"

"Let's play a game," said James. Lily eyed him warily, looking even more fatigued. "The way it works it that the person holding my son when he soils himself gets to change the nappy. The winner is everyone who isn't holding him when that happens."

Sirius glared at him.

"Sounds fun to me!" Peter offered lamely. He was already half-sloshed, on only two glasses. Maybe it was the empty stomach, or maybe he wasn't sloshed and it was just that people were having duels and having babies and nothing made sense anymore anyway.

Lily yawned. "I'm about to drop dead," she said, "I'm going to evict you all to the living room. If my turnip falls asleep, bring him up to the cradle, okay? I'll probably be asleep already."

Lupin got up to give Lily a hug. She patted him on the back fondly. "Congratulations, again," he said softly. "Really. It's nice, you know..." he trailed off.

"To have some good news," she finished. "Thank you, Remus. I know it was a stretch for you to get over here today, after–"

"Everything," James cut her off, with a look of warning. He raised an arm towards Lupin, and they embraced. Peter went over to join them. Sirius lagged behind; he was still coddling the baby. He raised his wand and conjured a little fuzzy dog, which popped into confetti when the baby grabbed at it.

"Congratulations, mate," said Peter, clapping James on the shoulder awkwardly. "You too, Lily."

"Thank you, Peter. We're so glad all of you could make it here to meet the baby," said Lily.

"Yeah, thanks, Pete, Remus," said James and he slung one arm around Peter and one around Remus. Peter felt the familiar glow of James' charismatic aura touch him, a feeling of importance and acceptance and gratitude that radiated out of James' grin and his crooked glasses and hurricane of black hair. "Lily and me wanted to say that, er, y'know Padfoot is godfather and all—"

"—you bet I am!"

"—despite our better judgment, well, Lily's better judgment, but anyways—"

"To the point, love," interjected Lily.

"—we _wanted _to say that both of you are—are, y'know, sort of like family, yeah?"

Lily gently took Peter's arm, and added, "All of us in the Order have become like that, but you two and Sirius...especially since my mother died and James' parents were killed..."

Remus placed a hand on her shoulder sympathetically. The four of them were now linked, all connected through a network of clasped hands and pats and embraces and Jame's bare foot resting on Lily's freckled one. Peter cleared his throat and said something he wasn't even conscious of and Sirius chuckled in the background while Lily smiled her soft, radiant smile. James was right; even shiny with sweat and puffy with water retention, she was unfailingly beautiful.

Afterwards. Sirius followed them with the baby down the cramped staircase to the cottage's ground floor. It was quite a bit homelier than James' old apartment in London and much smaller than the Potter family's manorial home back on the farm in Godric's Hollow. Peter knew it was "borrowed" from a Muggle family of landowners, who had conveniently forgotten that they owned this old property, nor noticed that a mysterious benefactor was paying their utility bills. Lily had been opposed to the idea on principal, but in the end it had been agreed that borrowing a home from any known wizard was too much of a risk; a home belonging to Muggles with no personal connections in the wizarding world would be much harder to track down.

Eventually, the baby fell asleep before its nappy needed changing, and Sirius handed him to James, who took him back upstairs. A stillness fell on the house. It was only mid-afternoon, but everyone was bone-tired. They had all stayed up through the night, though only James and Lily could be open about the circumstances. Lupin stared blankly at a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ he had brought on the Potters' behalf; they couldn't receive owls to the house anymore.

"Anyone we know?" asked Peter grimly.

"What?" replied Lupin. "Oh...I wasn't really reading. Here," he held out the paper to Peter, who turned it down with a wave of his hand.

"No thanks," he said. "Eh, Padfoot—what'd you think?"

"Think of what?" Sirius was rifling through the icebox. "Bloody Prongs hasn't gotten anything stronger than water in here. Must be 'cause of Lily."

"The baby, you dolt. What else?"

Sirius turned to Peter, gripping an ice-cold pitcher of pumpkin juice. "He's brilliant. Going to be a real genius some day—or a gnome if those teeth are any indication."

"Well, you're proud as punch," said Lupin, with a tired sigh.

"Oh, come on! It's James! He has a kid! If _James_ is allowed to have _children_, there must be some hope for the rest of us!"

"No hope for humanity is more like it," Lupin said, unbuttoning his collar. He fanned himself with the Spectre & Society section of the _Prophet_. "Would you please bring me some ice in a towel?"

Sirius took a scaled-down iceberg out of the icebox and placed it on the waxed wooden countertop. "_Diffindo_," he said, pointed his wand at the iceberg. It shattered into several pieces, which exploded across the room, hitting the walls and floor with several loud thuds.

A high-pitched wail issued from upstairs. Sirius wrapped a few small pieces of ice in a dishrag and handed it to Lupin, who pressed it to his forehead. James bounded downstairs, wand in hand, looking wild and strangely exposed without his glasses. He squinted, pointing his wand at the nearest person, which was Peter.

"Watch it, Prongs—that's Wormtail you're aiming for," said Sirius quickly. "It was me—I blasted a bloody iceberg apart, I didnt realize it would explode."

"Sirius," said James slowly, without lowering the wand. "I, I can't see—prove it." There was an uncharacteristic tremour in his voice. Peter inched away from James' wand, down the sofa.

"First year, after the detention we spent picking fleas from Mrs. Norris' coat, you tried to make me swear an Unbreakable Vow not to get caught duelling in front of Dumbledore again—think we might have succeeded, actually, but..." said Sirius.

James exhaled thickly and put his wand into his pocket. "Sorry," he breathed. Sirius nodded with understanding. Lupin surveyed James with a worried look. "Lily slept through it. I don't think anything could wake her right now," he said. "I should go calm down Turnip." He shook the sweaty hair out of his eyes and walked back up stairs, shoulders slumped. Sirius quietly picked up the pieces of ice melting all over the room.

Peter felt something swirl in his stomach. It had to do with the tremour in James' voice and Lupin's odd disinterest—in the way Sirius cleaned up the room and brought him and Lupin glasses of pumpkin juice without a word. Ambient fear, or maybe it was the way Lily had altered everything when she came along, like the one extra newt's eye that made a potion froth up and change colour. The alchemy of their group was shifting once again with the addition of this baby and it was not even a real person yet. More like half a person, or the idea of a person.

"Alright, Pete?" asked Sirius. "I think Remus has fallen asleep." Peter realized the baby's wailing had also died down.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. What a night, eh?" he said. Sirius smiled and leaned back against the cushions.

"I'm with you on that, mate. I could use a kip too."

* * *

><p>Mrs. Wendy Marks woke up early on the morning of the 31st, intent upon registering the girls for free swimming lessons before the classes filled up. She had learned, upon moving to Cokeworth, that it was never safe to wait when it came to signing up her children for any sort of program. The nursery school application had been an absolute nightmare—how was she to know to register her daughter before the child was even born? Of course she had come to expect waitlists for the free government programs, but honestly—either the other mothers were lining up at the community centre at the crack of dawn or using some kind of sorcery. Having lost out on registering the girls for swimming classes for two summers in a row, Mrs. Marks had every intention of being first past the post this time around.<p>

Scowling at the owl droppings on her neighbour's overgrown strip of lawn, she rummaged through her purse to find the right application forms. The Ford had not been spared by the wretched birds, either, which was disgusting. Mrs. Marks considered starting a petition to have the barn torn down. She disliked the neighbours across the street, who had absolutely no respect for the way other peoples' property values had gone down when they neglected to care for their own home, but she knew they had at least one young child, because she so often heard the high-pitched screams coming from the house. Anyone with children ought to know how much disease those birds carried, and how unsafe it was to have so many near one's family.

As she unlocked her car, Mrs. Marks thought about how much better off the neighbourhood could be with several small improvements, and how much higher her home's value might go if she managed to get rid of the owls and maybe save up enough for the dining room extension she and Mr. Marks were planning. She thought about many things that morning, none of which had to do with the screaming woman—who was not a child—inside her neighbour's house right now, or about the _real _reason why it was so hard to get your children into swimming lessons. As she made a tight left turn onto the main street, she was certainly not thinking about the eagle owl so often perched on her gables who was, at the moment, flying towards a house many miles away where several young people were raising their glasses and toasting to a stag, a doe, and inexplicably, a turnip—for these things would have made no sense at all to her either way.

_Something would make it go crack_

* * *

><p><strong>Italicized quotes are from the song "Kimberly" by Patti Smith.<strong>


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